The Sound Of Hope

Again. This wooden shed. On the edge of the cliff. Relentlessly bashed by the waves, over, over and over again. Yet, so strong, it holds it's ground, or whatever it is it's standing on. The wood looks weak, and worn, maybe that's cos it is. But yet, not a single wave manages to knock it off, or better yet, break it apart entirely, soaking all that is contained within with it's intense torrent. Yet, with every single wave, a slight spray, nay, a drop manages to cling on to the wood. And then, seeping through, it manages to pass it's wooden wall, finding it's way through, and then dripping onto the parchness that remains confined in this shed. Eagerly absorbing every nearly satisfying drop, from every other wave that manages to knock on the walls hard enough.

Drop by drop, no, there's no bucket here, and even if there was, there's not just one place the drops fall from. It's dark. Too dark to see...anything. Where the drop will fall next is impossible to tell. At times, vague spots of daylight manage to filter through, but the waves block it out almost immediately.

Parched, shriveling and yearning for a drop more, this shed stays strong. Not displaying the occupant it holds so silently within. With no knowledge of how to speak, the urge to scream is unfathomable, yet, remains supressed for want of a vent. Somehow, somewhere, someone will hear this faint wisp of pure, unadulterated desperation for belonging. Maybe just outside. Maybe just feel the water. Get struck once by a wave so strong. Feel the intensity of what it has to offer. Not fall off the cliff and struggle to swim. Not drown. Not anything. Just one wave. Strong enough to knock over the shed. Shatter the wood. Set the bereaved occupant free. Just one wave. One wave. One.